


Liberation

by lacrimosa (mariavast)



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29242518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariavast/pseuds/lacrimosa
Summary: She wasn't just an orphan, he wasn't just a machine.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov & Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 30
Kudos: 74





	1. Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, hello to all and thank you for choosing to read my fic. Admittedly, I was late in watching The Queen's Gambit, finishing the series just last weekend. However, it has been a looong time since I was captivated so much by a particular series and a particular pairing. Even though there only hints here and there, the dynamic between Beth and Borgov is so strong, that a simple stare gives away a lot. Confession no.2: I haven't written fan fiction in over 3 years and never as a fic, so apologies if my writing is a bit rusty. I don't know how many chapters this work will have, but I also have an idea for a different fic dedicated for the pairing, so I'm not exactly sure where this is going to lead.
> 
> Disclaimer: I haven't the faintest idea about chess, except from the basic movements of the pieces, so you won't be reading any detailed match scenes. Also, I'm not a native English speaker, so please please please excuse any mistakes that I may make.

_A lone tear._

That's all it took for Vasily Borgov to realize that he was wrong. Apart from being a child prodigy, a grandmaster and the current holder of the World Champion title, Borgov prided himself in being an excellent judge of character. His cold blue eyes pierced through any armor his opponents vainly put up. Each glance, each gesture, each twitch in their face was an indication of their recklessness, their nerve, their fear. He did not jump into conclusions quickly, like his colleagues all too often did; instead, he took his time, as he did on the chessboard, to observe, record and asses. Having read her file prior to their first match, he did not fall into the trap his compatriots did. Surely, she was young, talented and hungry for attention and success, but she wasn't just that. She was an orphan and he could understand what that meant better than anyone. After all, he had been young and talented once himself. But even though he had dug deeper into her personality than the others, Vasily Borgov did not manage to completely decipher the mystery that was Elizabeth Harmon. 

He wasn't angry that she came late to their match in Paris. It was another opportunity for him to asses her character. When she did come, there was no fire in her eyes, like he had seen in their previous meeting; they were cloudy, as if a fog had fallen. She smelled of strong perfume and alcohol and he knew, at that moment, that the plan had worked. They revealed it to him when it was already too late, and his suspicions where confirmed when he noticed the elegant figure of a French girl walking inside too late, seeking a place in the audience. He didn't like that they thought they needed to sabotage her for him to win. He knew that she wasn't that strong of an opponent just yet. Of course, she posed the most difficult challenge he had to face in years, but he was sure that he was still capable of beating her on his own powers. Her interview to the press and her answer in Russian had sparked restlessness and worry in the circles of the KGB. After all, he himself, even ever so subtly, had recognized her as one of the great of the next generation. They did everything that needed to be done in order to secure the Soviet dominance in the world of chess. Especially given that the risk of its collapse came from an American. 

This was a win he felt ashamed to claim.

_A lone tear._

It had run down her cheek ever so smoothly, but simultaneously as if carving her face like a knife, just before she took a deep breath and ended her torture.

_"I resign"._

As she stood up and strode off the room, escaping the judgmental glances of the audience and the lights of the cameras, he drew his lips slightly to the right, a momentary half smile at what he had just realized.

_A lone tear._

That's all it took for Vasily Borgov to realize that he was wrong. He had been wrong about her all along.

She wasn’t just an orphan and she was definitely not like them. Sure, winning was everything, but she did have something that he, and all the Soviets, could never dream of; she was brave enough to show emotion, vulnerability, anger, excitement and happiness. She was free enough to do it. She played simply because she had a passion for chess. No one else expected anything from her but herself. She was free enough to play by instinct, be vicious or kind, depending on the opponent. She had the luxury of losing, without it bringing severe consequences to her or her loved ones. While she would have laughed at the concept of loss as luxury, a few years later she would finally understand its importance.

He, on the other hand, had always needed to put a straight, indifferent face for everyone. A face that would cause fear in the opponents’ eyes and worship in the world of chess. A face that would emanate a sense of invincibility, stating to everyone that he is the ruler of the game; of every game. In all his life he was told to play by the rules in every aspect, in order to survive in the USSR. When his talent was discovered, he was under the constant pressure and scrutiny of the government. Study, practice, learn, win, excel. Not a foot stepped in the wrong way. Follow the rules and play conservatively. Secure a win. Never risk, never lose. Otherwise, the consequences will be unbearable.

_A lone tear._

At that moment Elizabeth Harmon gained Borgov’s respect not as a chess player, but as a human being.

_A grimace and a smile._

That’s all it took for Elizabeth Harmon to realize that she was wrong. Having read almost everything there is to be read about him, she had come to the conclusion that Vasily Borgov was indeed a machine. Contrary to what she had told the twins the night before their first match, she came to realize that the Soviet World Champion was a well-oiled machine. Never surprised, never surprising. Each move well calculated and rehearsed, either at a practice or a previous game, or instructed by a book. Bureaucratic. Unimaginative. Predictable. Obvious. Yet, effective enough to give him dominance over the board.

When she heard him stand up and walk over to her table to study the positions of the finished match, Beth felt a sense of pride within her. She was finally considered a worthy enough opponent for him, whose moves he needed to study in order to beat. She had just become one of the players he would study in his spare time or in preparation for a tournament. She had climbed a step higher in her view of the competitive chess world, more by the acknowledgement of her skills from the greatest one of all, than by the consecutive wins over world-renowned grandmasters. 

_A grimace._

Pawn to D5. She watched his face twitch with determination as he pulled the unexpected move. No one had predicted it, not her, not Townes, not even her six friends back home.

_A grimace._

Vasily Borgov had just put all the rules aside and chose to improvise instead. It was beautiful, she thought, even though it completely changed the flow of the game, even though it put her in the all too familiar difficult position before him. She had tried to play like him, planning each move and possible variations, and now he followed her style, walking away from the machine facet the world was used to. Doing the unexpected.

The draw that he offered was not a desperate move. He knew that he still had time to get out of it, salvage his position and reputation and avoid the consequences of a loss. Yet he did play in uncharted waters. His move had surprised him as much as it did everyone else. As much as it surprised _her_. This twist meant that they both had to move by intuition and while she was comfortable with it, he found it even more difficult. A draw would be fare to both of them. Giving her the satisfaction of challenging him well enough, while granting him a pass from everything that would happen in case he lost. For now, at least.

_A smile._

King to D2. She took a breath and looked over the board, making sure that her calculations were right. There was disbelief in her eyes; could she really have done it? When he offered her the draw, she knew that the prudent thing would be to take it. She would leave Russia with an almost impeccable record over her soviet counterparts – she did, after all, beat Luchenko -, which meant guaranteed world-wide fame and a sufficient feeling of satisfaction. Yet, that feeling wouldn’t be complete and her record would be _almost_ impeccable, not entirely. She didn’t have the reputation of someone that does the prudent thing, after all.

_A smile._

Out of all the things she expected when she pictured this scene in her mind, a smile was definitely not one of them, nor anything that happened after that. As she looked up from the board to him, his blue eyes weren’t icy any more. There was a certain warmth in them, a warmth that grew steadily as he smiled. He offered her his king and she felt a jolt when her hand made contact with his. The skin on her knuckles felt like it was on fire from the momentary caress of his fingers, a caress only noticeable by her. Her heart pounded like a drum when she found herself enveloped in his hug. A hug that radiated the warmth of his eyes, his smile, his touch.

Vasily Borgov was not a machine. He was a human being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, i'd like to thank you for taking the time to read it! I really hope you enjoyed it! If you'd like to chat, come to my tumblr: https://ignaziosearring.tumblr.com/ (I haven't been active in ages, but I'm determined to revive it. Also, it isn't so much Il Volo-centric as it looks and I honestly don't have the time to create a side blog dedicated only to The Queen's Gambit.)  
> I'm always open to comments and suggestions! See ya at the next chapter!


	2. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to say thank you to all of you for the incredible kindness you've shown me by taking the time to read my story. It means a looot!
> 
> Did I write this instead of studying for my corporate law exam? Yeah. Am I regretting it? Hell no!

Beth could hear the cheers and clapping of the people even before the doors were opened for her to leave. She stood on the doorstep, taking in the unique sight. They were clapping for _her_ , cheering for _her_ , congratulating _her_ , even though she had just beaten one of their own. The greatest of their own.

That’s what she realized she loved the most about Soviets, public and players. They played out of love for chess, not for the politics. She came to realize that last part upon the reactions of Luchenko and Borgov after their losses. They weren’t bitter; in fact they were the exact opposite. Luchenko had even called her the best player he had played in his life. And Borgov’s hug; well, she didn’t want to think about it that much, it made her heart flutter in a very unfamiliar way. His smile; she didn’t want to think about it either, it had taken her breath away. His touch; she still felt it on her skin, as if he had branded her permanently.

She shook a few hands before she reached the door of her taxi and took a look around to locate Townes. He was leaving, her parting gift to him that picture for the Lexington Herald-Leader. She knew she wouldn’t see him for some time, not because of the engagements she would have to go to once back home, but because she wouldn’t leave Russia just yet, the decision finalized in her head the very moment she won. She wanted to explore as much as she could of the beautiful city, interact with those wonderful people and play chess solely for the joy of it, not for the win. There was another reason of course. No matter how hard she tried to belittle it as a childish obsession, there was a persistent voice at the back of her mind, telling her that staying in Moscow meant staying close to _him_.

Once back at the hotel, she telephoned everyone back home to thank them for all their help, money or chess-wise. As she took off her dress and hung it in her closet, she smelled his cologne in the fabric. Breathing in the scent, she climbed on the bed and wrapped herself up with the duvet, the warmth of the covers reminding her of Borgov’s hug. The memory made her heart beat faster; she closed her eyes and relived the moment, falling asleep with the picture of Borgov’s smile.

The feeling of that hug was one she had never experienced all her life. For the first time, something had made her feel at home.

Borgov had just finished his conversation with the Soviet players and was about to leave for the hotel. Instead of the door, he was faced with two KGB agents, total strangers, who grabbed him by the elbows and rushed him out from the back door and into a car. He knew it was pointless to protest during the ride, so instead he used that time to think, think about where he was taken to, what he would tell them, what they would tell him. When the car pulled to a stop, he recognized the building as the one housing the central offices of the KGB.

They dragged him to a room, _an interrogation room._

The two agents cuffed his hands and his right leg to the chair, turned off the lights and left. He was left alone in the darkness, with his thoughts as company and simultaneously as his tormentor.

He knew the feeling, the memory resurfacing the moment he saw those agents at the door. 20 years ago, young, famous and successful, yet tired of the constant pressure and scrutiny of the government. No, not tired; angry. He had wanted to break free from his confinement, even if that meant not seeing his beloved country ever again.

But he had failed.

It was the first and only failure of his life.

Kept in captivity, denied of water or food for hours, in agony over what would eventually happen to him. He had no family, the closest thing he had to a father figure being Luchenko, who, thankfully, was too important for them to touch. He had been beaten hard, had been humiliated and warned. The next time, he wouldn’t be able to walk out of the room on his own feet.

They had realized that the only way to secure that it wouldn’t happen again was for him to have something greater to lose than his life; the life of a loved one. A few years after the incident, he was pressured into finding a suitable bride and enter into wedlock.

Petra had been the new interpreter assigned to assist the Soviet team in their travels abroad. She was only a few years younger than him, but looked even younger than that. She was smart, beautiful and humorous. Being her friend had been refreshing for him, she was the sole person he felt free to talk to. He didn’t need to be cautious about what he said and how he said it, especially when she admitted that she herself had a similar experience with the officials of the state. There never was anything more than genuine friendship between them and they both realized that they were the best solution for each other. An arranged marriage that would be tolerable, even pleasurable at times. She became his personal interpreter and he became her confidant.

Soon that wasn’t enough and the KGB pressured for more. Nikolai was the only reason he didn’t mind the governmental scrutiny for once. His son was his greatest achievement, greater than any title and win, and even though he wouldn’t show that side of his publicly, at home he was a very dotting father.

She had been lucky enough to experience the strong emotions only love can spark to someone, even if many years later, and he encouraged and helped her enjoy it. It was the least he could do for the woman that had become his best friend and his rock, as her name suggested. He hadn’t been that lucky. _Yet._

Those were the first thoughts he made in the darkness of the interrogation room. The picture of his family was lively printed in his brain, his wife’s reassuring smile, his son’s vivid laugh. This time the steaks were higher.

He didn’t know how, nor why, the next image that popped up in his mind was _her_. The slim, elegant body, the auburn curls, the big, expressive eyes. He could still smell her perfume on his clothes and feel her touch in his hand, in his neck and cheek.

Even though it had been only a few hours after it happened – he couldn’t tell how many, the darkness making him lose track of time- he still wasn’t able to logically explain why he had done it. A firm handshake and a congratulatory remark would have been more than enough to typically end a game. All he knew was that at that moment, he couldn’t resist the urge. He couldn’t disobey the command of his heart, not because of discipline, but because his whole being wanted it to happen. It had seemed as the only right thing to do.

The hug that had initially felt like salvation, had now become the reason of his demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading through it all! I've already started writing the third one (honestly, somebody stop me from this madness), so you'll be hearing from me very soon!


	3. Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I took so long to update, exams are killing me and also I went back and forth with my writing many times, deleting and writing again.
> 
> Once more, I'm forever thankful for the time you take to read this fic and for your beautiful comments. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy the new chapter as well!

His body felt stiff and his throat dry. It had been hours since he last saw a light, natural or artificial. They had passed by excruciatingly slowly, yet in the blink of an eye. The more he was encompassed by the darkness and the coldness of the room, the more he felt the warmth of the fire in her eyes. A fire that was initially fed by anger but gradually, as she grew as a person and a player, by passion.

The loud beating of his heart echoed deafeningly through his ears, through his body and through the room, breaking the silence of his solitude. His body was reacting to the mere thought of her, his heart beating faster, his breath taken away, his stomach fluttered. He closed his eyes and pictured her in the crème dress, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, opening them and darting them to the ceiling. What he couldn’t see in the bricks above him he saw it in her eyes. It was the mere reflection of the board between them, but he could easily imagine her seeing the pieces rapidly switch places, playing out all the possible variations till she could find the right move that would give her her heart’s greatest desire. The win.

He opened his eyes and imagined her there, in the room, sitting across from him like she had done only a few hours ago. The familiar chessboard between them was set for another game. He was playing black again, the king he had given her was safely protected behind the line of pawns. The game ended with a draw. The finest chess players in the world had now become equals. There was no need to win, there was only the need to enjoy the mental challenge of a good game. When she shook his hand, she left the white queen in his palm.

 _“Quid pro quo”_ , she whispered and smiled, before her figure evaporated into thin air.

He had never experienced such a feeling before, he couldn’t recognize it, name it and stash it away in the drawers of his mind. He could only vaguely remember how Petra had described it to him, the unfamiliar yet exciting feeling she had experienced the first days after she had made an acquaintance with Dimitri, her lover of five years. The excitement and the agony, the fear and the desire, the hope and the pain. He was happy for her. Even under the most difficult of circumstances, Petra had managed to be content, jubilant and hopeful. She had a glow he had never seen before and her eyes glimmered. Love makes everyone look beautiful, he thought.

His thoughts were abruptly cut by the sound of keys unlocking the door. The fluorescent lights blinded him and it took him a great deal of effort to get accustomed to the light. The officer, a man he couldn’t recognize but could tell was high in the hierarchy of the KGB, stepped closer to him and removed his hand cuffs. Before Borgov was able to do or say anything, the officer punched him in the stomach.

The questions posed to him were obvious, the loss being the most vital issue for the government. The Soviets beaten at their own game on home turf and by an American girl. Three facts that were capable of enraging the government each on their own. The hug was the cherry on top. They had interpreted it as an expression of his infatuation with the girl, the weakness that had finally taken down the one true king of chess.

When he saw her picture instead of that of his family, he thought they would use her as the blackmail; beat her or lose her forever.

The mere thought of her in the hands of the KGB made him tremble with fear. For the first time in his life, he felt panic rush through his veins. No, he couldn’t bear it, the thought of him living in a world without her. Even if she would have to stay in the opposite end of the world, protected under her government’s officials, even if he would have to come to terms with seeing her only in his memory, Elizabeth Harmon had to stay alive.

His _Liza_ had to be protected at all costs, even at the cost of his own life.

The officer mentioned his family in between the blows. In all his life he never felt more guilt than by that small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief; they wouldn’t hurt her. But they would still hurt his family.

When they finally let him go, he could barely walk on his own two feet. There was no hint of his ordeal on his face, but he could tell the officer might have broken at least a couple of his ribs. They drove him to the hotel and made him walk in through the back door; the king of chess could not be seen in such a state.

What they had asked him to do was infuriating, seducing her into defecting to the USSR. It had suddenly stained all his feelings for her, poisoned their innocence, contaminated their purity. His feelings now belonged to the government, as did his whole being. He wanted it with all his heart and soul to have her near him every day, walk the streets that she roamed, search for her face in the crowd and maybe, just maybe, invite her for an occasional lunch, start to spend time with her and gradually let his feelings show. But he didn’t want it to happen that way. He wanted her to come on her own, not because of his intervention. He wanted with every fiber of his being for her to reciprocate his emotions, but without his manipulation. He wanted Liza to be only his, not the government’s.

The feeling of being a pawn, a mere soldier to be used for the politics, had never stung more than at that moment.

* * *

Beth awoke damped with cold sweat. She was uneasy and had a bad feeling. Her eyes darted to the wooden king. It was a very elegant piece, very different from those they used in the States. One could see the importance of chess for the Soviets even from the craving of the chess set, she admitted. She took the piece in her hand and recalled the feeling of his touch. She could swear her knuckles still felt burned. The mere reminiscence of him helped her relax.

The ringing on the phone disrupted her thoughts. It was Mr. Booth, informing her that she had an hour to get ready before they left for the airport. She briefly contemplated telling him that she wasn’t planning on living, but realized taking him by surprise once inside the car would not allow him to protest. And so, she packed and in one hour promptly she was waiting for Mr. Booth in front of the reception desk.

The ride was beautiful, except from Mr. Booth’s attempt at drawing her attention to all the engagements that waited for her back home. A president that couldn’t care less about chess, but craved for a photo-op, a dinner at some chess club and most infuriatingly, a list of talking points, as if she wasn’t capable of making conversations herself, as if Mr. Booth’s and the government’s scrutiny would still follow her even away from the dangerous lands of the USSR.

She shut his protests down with the door of the car and started walking. The cold air felt refreshing and her uneasiness from the morning passed, although a small hunch remained in the back of her head. She knew exactly where she wanted to go.

Playing chess with strange old men in Russia would sound – blatantly put – crazy to anyone back home, yet for Beth it felt familiar, almost calming. It took her back to the days when she played chess with Mr. Shaibel at the basement of Methuen, the man to whom she owned everything she had just become. She knew that even if he were still alive, she could never pay him back for what he did for her. It wasn’t just the 10 dollars, it was every game she played, every match she won, every title that was bestowed upon her. She would have given everything to play with him one last game, not to win, but to enjoy the game.

In every man that she played in that park, Beth saw Mr. Shaibel. Her wins weren’t a result of her insatiable hunger. On the contrary, she never enjoyed more playing chess than with these old Russian enthusiasts. Some of them put up quite a fight, having obviously studied her games during the tournament. She liked the mental challenge without the steaks of a competition. There she wasn’t playing to practice new moves, nor to win a title. She was playing for pure fun. It was refreshing, even liberating.

Once the sun was beginning to set and the weather became even colder, she realized that her coat wouldn’t be enough, so se reluctantly finished the last game and started walking back to the hotel upon promising her opponents that she would be back to play with them again before she left.

Beth was thankful for the long walk. She needed time to think before she had to deal with Mr. Booth. Yet, it wasn’t his reaction that troubled her. It was something else, much more important than that. Her gloved hand could feel the shape of the black king in her right pocket. It had felt wrong throwing the piece in her luggage. As if she was throwing away her win. As if she was throwing away _him._

Her mind drifted to Harry and Benny, how she slept with them after beating them. She hated the notion that she followed a pattern with all the landmark wins in her career, the Kentucky State Champion, the US Champion and now the World Champion. No, Borgov would never be a part of that list, not because she didn’t want to sleep with him – that, she was honest enough with herself to realize that she wanted to do – but because Vasily Borgov was not like them. Her feelings for him were not like her feelings for them. If there had ever been any feelings, she thought.

Beth realized then that it all had started at the elevator, when he, the most important man in the chess world, showed everyone that she mattered as an opponent, that she was more than a young girl in fancy clothes. She didn’t have to prove anything to him, he respected her no matter how their match would have gone.

Yet, she couldn’t exactly understand the feelings she had about Borgov – she fought hard with her mind to think of him as Borgov, the distant cold Russian she met in Mexico City and not _Vasya_ , the man that warmed her heart with just a hint of his smile. She knew he was a forbidden fruit, a Russian with a loving family, but she could tell her attraction to him wasn’t because she couldn’t have him. She could tell that what she felt was pure and innocent, much more innocent than she ever was or felt.

That warmth she felt the whole time she thought about him accompanied her to the hotel. The reception area was almost empty, so she was spotted quite easily by the hotel manager. He gave her the key to her room and informed her that her baggage awaited for her upstairs. Mr. Booth had also asked for her to visit him in his room as soon as she went back to the hotel. She smiled to the man to thank him and searched for the door to the staircase. Her room was just two floors up and she wouldn’t risk bumping on her minder in the elevator. She wanted to put off that confrontation for as long as possible.

When she saw Vasily Borgov sitting down on the stairs and bent over his stomach, wincing from the pain, panting and sweating, her heart skipped a beat. Like all the other feelings she had experienced with him, she had never felt that kind of worry for someone build up so fast inside her. Her Vasya was hurt and she had a dreadful feeling that it was her fault.


	4. Worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this chapter is so ridiculously late, but I just finished my exams today (finally!). Hopefully from now on I will be able to have a more stable schedule of writing and uploading.
> 
> Enjoy!

_“I have no plans to stop playing and I’ll likely die with my head on a chessboard.”_

His words rang in his ears as he saw the figure coming closer to him. The staircase had suddenly transformed into a giant chess board; he, the black king, destroyed, beaten, bowing down to the white queen that just mated him. Every sound was muffled and his vision was blurry as he struggled to breath. His words were coming true, he was dying, not just with his head on the chessboard, but with his whole being. An end so fitting for his life, a life born and dying from his only passion, chess.

_“Mr. Borgov!”_

He was pale as a ghost and nearly delirious. It took a lot of strength for Beth to pull him out of his hallucination and back to reality, shaking his shoulders and calling his name many times before she could see his vision clearing up. His sharp, small breaths felt warm against her face. This was the closest she had seen his face, the age lines deepened by his distress made him look older than he was, but the rare silver touches in his hair gave him a certain charm she would have found irresistible under other circumstances.

Her voice was a distant mumble at first and it required a great deal of effort to realize that it was not a giant white queen that was speaking to him, but her, dressed in white, more elegant than any other woman in the world.

_“Liza.”_

The name slipped through his tongue without a second’s thought. He still couldn’t focus and panted; every breath felt like another punch. But her voice, that was the sole thing that could grand him down to reality. Slowly, he started making out more than mere outlines and he was finally able to clearly see the young woman before him. She had knelt down beside him, her hands firmly pushing his shoulders – he couldn’t tell if that burning feeling was caused by his injuries or by her touch – worry straining her alabaster face. The blue set of eyes hungrily looked for the brown one in an effort to reassure them that he was lucid again; lucid and thankful.

_“Mr. Borgov, what happened?”_

A million thoughts rushed through her mind; him calling her Liza fought with her worry for the most pressing one. She knew it wasn’t the proper moment to think about it, but she never thought her name would sound more beautiful than it did at that moment and by that voice. Studying him thoroughly, she realized that he was still wearing the same clothes as the day before, brown suit, yellowish shirt and black tie. He was also alone, without the agents that were always accompanying him. His silence helped her connect the dots.

_“It was the KGB, wasn’t it?”_

She was smart, maybe too smart for her own good. But he had to admit, her brightness was one of the many things that attracted him. The consequences of revealing her what really happened would be grave, greatly compromising both hers and his family’s safety. But then again, their safety was already compromised to some extend and all these years in chess had taught him that two people were better than one in solving a problem. Maybe she could provide a new perspective, maybe she could really help him escape from this dilemma.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t even nod, but the look he gave her told her everything. She asked again.

_“What happened?”_

_“Not here”,_ he responded and grunted, the sharp pain making him look down again.

She knew calling a doctor was out of the question, at least at the moment, so she would have to implore the one skill she was best at, improvisation.

_“You need to lie down at least. My room is just around the corner. Do you think you can make it up the stairs?”_

He nodded and she helped him stand up. It clenched her heart to see Vasily Borgov, the man who, until very recently, she thought to be a machine, the invincible chess player, the indifferent and distant Russian, her Vasya, broken in that way, unable to climb a few stairs without leaning onto her, having to stop every few steps to catch his breath.

The corridor was clear and they entered her room without being seen. The room was clean and tidy, the only thing out of place being her suitcases. She helped him lie down on the left side of the bed and removed his jacket and tie. Then, she proceeded to unbutton his shirt. She admitted to herself she had imagined doing this many times, but never could she think that it would happen like that. Borgov also shot her a questioning look.

_“I realize you don’t want me to call a doctor, but someone has to asses the damage and right now, I’m your best shot.”_

Of course, he knew that under the circumstances the only way for him to be treated was relying on her. However, he still hated it that she had to see him in that state. Having to put up a cold and indifferent facet for the rest of the world for so many years had made him accustomed to that distance from other people. The invincibility that he emanated had made him scared of showing event a hint of weakness. At times he nearly forgot that a weak, humane side of him existed at all. It was all the more difficult to let this side of his show in front of her.

She continued unbuttoning his shirt and rolling up his undershirt, every accidental caress momentarily alleviating his pain.

Had she not been worried by the heavily bruised skin, she would have been very surprised at just how muscular his body was. Under the purplish color she could see well-formed abs, a result of strict training.

She immediately picked up the phone and asked the front desk for some strong painkillers and a bottle of vodka. It was Borgov’s turn to worry at that second request, a look that didn’t go unnoticed by Beth.

 _“It’ll numb the pain much quicker than the pills”,_ she simply answered him, although she felt a warming feeling in her heart by the thought that he was concerned about her battle with alcoholism. She pushed the thought away and concentrated on the matter at hand. As good as she were at improvising, she wasn’t sure she could pull it off on her own.

_“Is your family here? I haven’t seen them since the welcoming dinner.”_

_“My wife and my son went back to Leningrad. He has school every day and I don’t need an interpreter here.”_

He spoke comfortably in English, his Russian accent ever so subtle.

 _“I dare say you wouldn’t need an interpreter anywhere”,_ she noted in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

If only she knew how even this was part of the game. The greatest Russian chess player in the world shouldn’t be expected to be interested in other languages, he didn’t need them to prove his domination over the board, nor to attract attention. Others would have to learn to speak his language if they wanted to communicate with him. Surprisingly it had worked, Beth had fallen in that trap without even knowing it.

 _“This is a dangerous game, Miss Harmon”_ , he responded.

She had an idea of course, but could not fully grasp what he meant.

_“Can I at least reach out to someone from your team? Maybe Luchenko?”_

_“Fine. But only him, no one else can know. We have practice in an hour. I believe you know in which room.”_

She smirked at that comment; so he had seen her, after all.

_“I do indeed. However, I don’t think it wise for you to go, especially if you don’t want the others to know. I’ll make something up and tell them you sent me to be the 4 th player.”_

Before he could reply there was a loud knock on the door. They both turned their heads to that direction and heard the knock again, more persistent this time.

 _“Miss Harmon! I know you’re in there.”_ It was Mr. Booth.

She turned back to Borgov and signaled him that he should hide in the bathroom. She helped him up and led him there, making sure that no trace of him in the room was visible.

_“Miss Harmon, if you don’t open up, I swear I’m taking the door down.”_

She opened the door begrudgingly. Facing him was the last think she wanted to do.

_“Where have you been? We’ve been searching for you for hours! Do you realize the panic you have caused back home? The American champion lost in the heart of the USSR! That is exactly what we wanted to avoid. I recall telling you specifically to never leave the hotel without me. The State Department is in a frenzy, you stood up the President of the United States, for God’s sake!”_

He was shouting, she was sure they could hear them from all the rooms nearby.

 _“Are you finished?”_ She managed to keep a straight face, thinking carefully on the best strategy to tackle him.

_“First of all, I was in the park, playing chess with some old men. It was that easy to find me. Besides, I didn’t want to hide from you, I just wanted to enjoy my time here. And secondly, I don’t care about all that you said. I came here on my own to play chess, representing myself. I am not part of the political games, nor am I representing any government or any President. They had that opportunity to ask me to do it, but instead of financing my trip, they sent you. Are we clear on that?”_

She had tried keeping her voice at normal levels, but the thought that she was being censored, even for a little while, drove her crazy.

A knock on the door disrupted their fight. They had brought the pills and the vodka. Great, she thought, just what Mr. Booth needed to see.

 _“What is this”,_ he asked furiously, once the groom had left, pointing at the small box.

 _“Painkillers. Or am I not allowed to have menstrual cramps as well?”_ Irony was her best shot at that moment, she thought.

_“And the vodka? I thought I made it clear enough on the plane that you are not to drink.”_

_“It is my present for the Soviets. They were kind enough to invite me to practice with them. Actually, I need to prepare, so if you don’t mind, I don’t think we have anything else to discuss here.”_ She knew she was driving him crazy, a part of her enjoyed it, another was thinking about Borgov, hidden in the bathroom, beaten up and in pain.

_“You think chess is everything, don’t you? Well, let me break it to you, it isn’t. The moment you played against a Soviet player it became political, far before coming here. And it definitely won’t end tomorrow, after we leave.”_

Beth laughed mockingly. She knew she had stretched things more than enough, but she wouldn’t give up. She had to win this fight. Every fight.

_“If any of us is leaving tomorrow that is you. I am staying here till my visa expires. I don’t need a chaperone, I am pretty capable of protecting myself. I have been doing so long before the government realized it could take advantage of me to take a lead in this conflict. You can tell that to the State Department once you return.”_

Beth thought she could actually see Mr. Booth’s blood boiling inside him. However, she couldn’t predict what he did next; she only managed to catch his hand just before it landed on her cheek.

_“If you dare to try doing that again, I swear the whole world will know about it. Everyone will know that America is exactly like the USSR.”_

Booth didn’t answer. He knew he had exceeded a line there and that he didn’t have enough power to persuade her to come home with him. He only said one last thing before he left.

_“Enjoy your freedom while it lasts Miss Harmon, because even if you don’t defect and choose to come back, it will be over soon.”_


End file.
